Moments
by Alpha Flyer
Summary: Natasha gets a present; Darcy hates air travel; Skye contemplates Ward; Clint comes back from a mission. A collection of random, unrelated ficlets and mini-fics - Avengers/MCU with touches of Agents of SHIELD and one A/U. All T-rated except #7, which crosses into M territory.
1. Celebration, Chai Latte, Joys of Flying

A/N: One of the best parts about being in fandom is the people you meet – the ones who reassure you that you're not as much of a head case as you're afraid you may be, given how much time you spend obsessing about fictional characters.

Some you get to know and become close to in real life, others you may never meet face-to-face. But the friendships you build are real, and they matter. So someone has a birthday' another leaves a prompt; a third just needs cheering up – and stories happen as a result. Little stories, meant to show that just for a moment, you connected through something you both love to do.

This is a mixed collection of ficlets that includes an A/U and, in this first installment, a couple of Agents-of-SHIELD(ish) pieces. All are rated T, except the very last one. I'll be posting them in two lots, to spare the inboxes of those of you who get notifications.

...

The first piece was written for **Shenshen77 **on her birthday, and is a toast to fresh starts.

* * *

**1: Celebration**

* * *

"What's this?"

Natasha eyes the package suspiciously. It looks as if someone had taken an old shoebox, sat on it, and then wrapped most of a roll of toilet paper around it to keep the sides from splitting open.

"It's a present," Barton says. "Well, not exactly. But I wrapped it myself."

"I would never have guessed," she says. "What _is_ it?"

She is still fathoming the man's capacity for obstinacy, but this answer is something she should have expected: "Why don't you open it and find out?"

Natasha holds the thing up against her ear and shakes it a little. It doesn't tick, or rattle; no, it sounds … _fluffy_, like there's something soft inside, barely moving.

"Don't tell me you actually bought that black velvet wall hanging you saw in the market in Lisbon?" she demands. Their first mission together had almost ended in tragedy, when she had found that his tastes ran to cheap bars and tacky souvenirs.

"Please," Barton is offended. "Give me some credit. Those can only be truly awesome when they involve Elvis in his fat period."

She gives him a measuring look and weighs the parcel carefully in her hand. It's actually pretty light, and once you subtract the packaging, there isn't much left for anything except …

"Anthrax powder?" she asks, frowning.

"You spend entirely too much time thinking about death, Romanoff," Barton informs her. Before she can even interject a _Yes, so? That's my job,_ he continues, "… and not enough time considering the other side of the coin. Birth. Or _re_birth, for that matter. Beginnings. Turning over a new leaf, that sort of thing."

"Birth?"

Natasha ignores the last bits; Barton getting metaphorical is not an appealing concept, especially after what he just said about Elvis Presley and black velvet. She dials her glare up to _Medusa_, without noticeable impact. Instead, he rolls his eyes and huffs impatiently.

"As in birth_day_."

Natasha suddenly feels as if someone was sitting on her chest. There had been records within the Red Room, of course, but any data in them was only as reliable as the motives of those who had entered them. In an agency that specialized in inventing identities, planting memories and concealing tracks, _reliable_ was a death sentence.

"It's not my birthday," she says, extending the hand with the parcel in his direction as if to hand it back to him.

Barton won't take no for an answer.

"It is now," he says, and there's a slight edge to his voice. "Open the damn thing. I'll stay close, so if it's booby-trapped we go down together."

"Fine."

She rips into the parcel easily, given the improvised nature of its wrapping. Lifting the slightly dented lid, she finds …

"More toilet paper? Taken off the roll, too, and all balled up, ready for use? Oh, Hawkeye, you shouldn't have."

"Hey!" Barton takes a step towards her. "Careful. You don't want to tear it. Some day, this will have sentimental value to you. Like Scrooge McDuck's first self-earned dime."

Natasha snorts, even as she is beginning to suspect that maybe there is actually something vaguely important in the box. She fishes gingerly around in the wads of tissue (_three-ply - he went all out, or else he snagged a roll from Fury's private bathroom_), only to find more paper at the bottom. She takes it out and unfolds it, trying to ignore Barton whose expression has suddenly gone unreadable.

It's an envelope, addressed to her, with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo on the back. She rips it open and takes out the single half-sheet. The paper is covered in numbers and incomprehensible acronyms, with her name at the top.

And yes, it bears today's date.

"What is this?" she says, and doesn't bother to hide her confusion. "It looks like a ledger of some sort."

"It is," Clint says, and the oddest smile crosses his face. "Of sorts. But it isn't _red_. It's your first official pay slip. Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., _Agent Romanoff._"

...

...

* * *

This one was written for **Anuna_81'**s birthday – in February. After Cap2 and Episodes 17 and 18 of _Agents of SHIELD_, alas, it took on a whole different meaning (_awww, Skye_ …).

...

* * *

**2. Chai Latte**

* * *

Sometimes, Skye really doesn't know what to make of Ward - it's like he's half a dozen different people, taking off one skin and putting on another, just like _that_. Maybe it's that whole being a covert agent thing?

Sometimes, it would be nice for the real Grant Ward to stand up.

She wraps her hands around her chai latte and frowns, trying to puzzle him out as he grins at her from across the table. He salutes her with his Bold Americano, probably wondering what idiotic scheme she's hatching now to get them all killed.

So here's the deal.

One moment he's like a Father Confessor, patiently letting her rant about why compartmentalization totally sucks as the theological basis for an organizational flow chart. Seriously, why _shouldn't_ Coulson be able to tell her stuff he knows but she doesn't and wants to, just because she supposedly doesn't _need_ to know it?

Who says what she might need to know tomorrow, when it'll be too late? What kind of working environment does _that_ make for_?_ Lack of trust much? How can you have cross-fertilization of ideas and lateral thinking in a world made up of steel silos of excellence and impenetrable levels of classification?

So when that happens, Father Confessor Ward listens and nods politely, doesn't agree or argue at all until she shuts up - at which point he either grants absolution or makes her feel guilty about her whinge binge, all with a few choice words that aren't even all that different from one time to the next. Annoying, mostly, but she also usually feels a bit better for having dumped. Funny, that.

Other times, he's totally hot, like when he's teaching her in the sparring room where to kick a guy and how hard, to disable him but still leave some breath in for interrogation purposes. Holding her by the waist with those big hands of his, helping her shift her balance and breathing down her neck, and the way that t-shirt clings to his abs? Holy shit.

And she finds herself wondering, are there actual pheromones flying, or does her nose just have a particularly fine imagination? (And dammit, there should be a law against parading an ass like that around in public.)

But then he turns on the annoying big brother routine, not that she knows what that feels like, never having had one, but she's read about them in books. Surely, throwing a sweaty towel at a girl's face isn't something anyone _but _an annoying big brother would do, right?

Then again sometimes she sees him wander over to May, and whatever those two have between them it's different, and not something Skye can totally relate to or be a part of - something old, worn and a bit frayed around the edges. Like they're comparing battle scars and old stories around a campfire and getting comfort from a silent nod, and Skye just knows that she doesn't have enough scars and stories yet to be in that particular club, even though the door isn't closed.

Romanoff and Barton, they were like that too, that time they stopped by on the plane after the Manila op, to use the medical bay and hang with Coulson and May and Ward for a bit. They sat up way late, the five of them, passing some bottles around, and sometimes there was a gale of laughter coming from the lounge and sometimes there were long silences before the voices would be back.

Theirs is a trust and comfort shaped by sharing horrendous losses, incandescent victories and everything in between - distilled into some kind of air that allows them to breathe easier in each other's company than in anyone else's. It's a wordless ease of being with one another that's been earned the hard way, and Skye isn't there yet; she knows it and she really doesn't mind. It will come, that ease, and that's something to be hoped and feared in equal measure.

So, yeah. Different Wards, for different occasions.

But then he turns up from his recce – the one that Coulson said she couldn't go on because there aren't that many young women with curly light hair in Muscat, and _we don't want to be too memorable, not yet anyway._ He turns up with a Tazo chai latte for her, still warm - not hot, but that's what microwaves are for, or that heat-ray thingy FitzSimmons are experimenting with in the back - and who knew there was a Starbucks in Oman? But he has a nose for them, does Ward, and he always remembers what she likes, even when she's not there to remind him.

"You done staring into that cup yet?" he asks, finally.

And yes – yes, she is.

Because it's just hit her: What she's been doing is like trying to sort out all the different spices that go into a decent chai, when it's always really the blend that matters.

And there's one thing that all those different Wards are when you throw them all together, and for a moment it almost makes her all dizzy and blubbery, because it's not something she ever had before – not really, anyway. She grabs her cardboard cup and takes a quick swallow, to stop herself from having a serious snot moment.

Grant Ward is a friend.

...

...

* * *

This piece was the result of a LiveJournal/tumblr meme, in which **Ericadawn16 **_picked __the prompt __stuck-in-an-airport-because-the-flights-were-SO-VERY-delayed-and-it's-like-two-am AU_, with characters

Elliot Randolph and Darcy Lewis. (Huh? Challenge much?)_. _I wrote it in the course of a thirteen-hour flight to Japan, which involved one missed connection and an unplanned change of airport. Go figure. But lest you think there's any attitudinal meta hidden in my pseud, that's got something to do with my other fandom, Star Trek Voyager, not my travelling habits.

I have taken liberties with the flight times between Tromso and Oslo, and when Darcy would have to be leaving town to make a connection to LaGuardia. But if you believe in Asgard and flying demi-gods, I suppose I'll get away with it.

* * *

**3: The Joys of Flying**

* * *

"Tromsø sucks."

The man sitting across from Darcy looks up briefly, but instead of making some sort of sympathetic noise, he turns his attention back to his notebook. It's not even a real notebook, but one of those spiral-bound manual things, and his eyebrows are pulled over his eyes like a curtain, presumably so he can pretend he doesn't see Darcy, and her attempts for find a conversation.

She lets out a sigh and tries again.

"I mean, seriously. This has got to be the world's suckiest airport, and I've been to LaGuardia. At least LaGuardia didn't smell of smoked fish."

The man continues to ignore her, which would be bad enough but he's the closest life form around and Darcy is just _so freakin' tired_ of sitting here and not talking to anyone and just waiting. And _waiting_. She hated Tromsø the first time, and really should have known better than go back there. (The things you do for science and a teeny share of Jane's latest research grant.)

Darcy bounces her heel against the leg of her chair. (Are they chairs when they're all nailed together like that, or is that a bench?) _Ouch,_ that hurt.

If at least Jane was still here. Jane isn't the world's chattiest person, but she would probably at least say something like, _so sorry Darcy, and doesn't air travel suck the big one? _ And then they could roll their eyes at each other and maybe trash Tromsø for a bit. With words, of course, not for real – Darcy has enough of _that_ kind of trashing to last her a lifetime; she wouldn't do that, even to Tromsø.

But now she doesn't even have Jane for company anymore. Jane's going home via some stupid conference in Helsinki, the one Darcy had decided would kill her of boredom at if she went, but which is beginning to look pretty good, all things considered. At least there'd be booze, assuming there's a reception, not just a pathetic duty-free that closes at eleven.

Of course, the Helsinki plane got away hours ago, right on schedule, with Jane on it. Bye-bye, company.

The Oslo plane, the one Darcy was supposed to get on, that's the one that broke or died or got eaten by Dark Elves or whatever. And what's worth, by the time she'll get to Oslo, her connection to the good old U.S. of A. and a Starbucks on every corner will be long gone.

To top it all off, her iPhone death-beeped just after that last plaintive text to Jane, and the charger is in her suitcase which the troll at the check-in won't let her have back 'for security reasons'. Security reasons? Seriously, when has Darcy Lewis ever been a threat to anyone, except maybe with a Taser, which they won't let you bring on airplanes anyway?

She tries again.

"I think they should just bring us a new plane rather than try and fix the old one, don't you? I mean, isn't that what they do when one breaks? Bring a new plane?"

The man looks up briefly.

"I'm sure they're working on it," he says. "We just have to be patient. A few hours are nothing in the face of eternity."

Oh, hello, _it talks_. Intellectualizes, even.

Darcy decides to go for it. She crosses the aisle, plunks herself down beside the man and looks over his shoulder.

"You a philosopher, or something?" she asks, because asking people about what they do makes them feel good about themselves, and is usually a good conversation starter. (PoliSci student, dontcha know.) It always works with Jane, except more often than not you end up wishing you hadn't asked. But Jane's not here, so where's the harm? "Whatcher working on?"

The man gives her a sideways look, but he doesn't make a move to cover up his paper. Instead, he looks just a bit contemptuously, like he's convinced Darcy wouldn't have a clue what she's looking at.

"I doubt you would understand."

Prick. Except – ha! - she does. The stuff on the page? Looks totally familiar. _Runes._ Like the way Thor explained the BiFrost thing to Jane: Norse for Einstein-Rosen.

For a moment a small chill creeps down Darcy's spine. Seriously, what _are_ the odds? What sort of karma must be sticking to her that she keeps attracting this Asgardian stuff? But if there's one thing she's learned from hanging around Jane Foster and S.H.I.E.L.D. is that when you see a mystery, you better go shine a flashlight at it right away, or else it comes back and bites you in places you'd rather it didn't.

"Those scribbles," she says, stubbing her finger on the man's note pad with just the right amount of accusation in her voice. "They look like those little pictures Thor keeps drawing for Jane, the ones that he says are writing of some sort and she thinks are, like, the formula to open a door to the universe or some such thing. Not that we need another door to the universe, I mean really? Century 21 in Manhattan is _still _closed from the last one, which really sucks because they had the_ best_ sales. So, what are you using those for?"

The man stares at her like he's seen a ghost, but that doesn't translate into an actual answer. He asks her a question instead.

"You know _Thor_?"

Is that what he got from her question? Maybe she should take interrogation lessons from those S.H.I.E.L.D. guys, like that Coulson dude, the one who still owes her an iPod? Anyway.

The guy sounds a little strange when he asks his question - actually a _lot_ strange, but at least he's looking at her now and seems ready for some information-gathering. Of course, there's a little alarm bell going off, in Darcy's head, because _hello, stranger_, so she decides to be diffident.

"Yes, of course I know Thor. I mean, doesn't everybody? He's been all over TV, saving the world twice now – or is it three times? Not sure that robot thing counts, does it? Punta-whatsit was _way _to small for world threatening. New York and London, well, that would have been awkward if they'd gone down. Anyway, he's, like, a public figure."

Apparently the guy doesn't buy _diffident._

"You recognized runic writing," he says. "They have never shown that on TV in connection with Thor."

_Shit. _Time to be brave, and counter-attack.

"So why do _you_ have it, then?" Darcy challenges. He doesn't look particularly threatening - balding, some fuzz left (thank goodness no comb-over) - out of shape, pudgy. Like a professor-type, or maybe an accountant.

The man gives her a calculating look. He has obviously figured out that she's not going to divulge anything more without at least a formal introduction, so that's something.

"Elliot Randolph," he says, extending his hand. Darcy takes it cautiously; it's warm and firm, not clammy. (Not obviously evil, then. Those Death Head elves? Cold, like fish that's been in the fridge too long.) "Professor of Norse Mythology at the University of Oslo."

"Norse mythology? That's, like, the study of Thor and that horrible no-good brother of his? And I don't care _what_ Jane says about him having redeemed himself a bit, he's still a total shit and almost got us all killed in New Mexico. Not to mention what he did to Manhattan." Darcy fixes Randolph with her best stare. "Why would anyone here want to study Thor and his family?"

He cocks his head a little, and goes all sincere and official.

"The historical influence of Asgard on this world is fascinating to many," he says. "Especially now that people know it's real, not myth. I am trying to bring the two worlds together, reduce misconceptions through learning and understanding."

"You mean, like, Earth-Asgard relations? Because, you know, those could really use some improving after what Loki did. Thor keeps having to explain how he's adopted."

Darcy can't help herself. Politics is her field, a lot more than that door into other universes stuff, although she's getting pretty good at that, too. She hasn't really thought that those things might go together, so, like, _fascinating_. Future job opportunities?

"In a way, yes," Randolph says, and for a moment there's something sad in his voice. Probably because whatever he's been teaching for the last few years must be getting jossed on a daily basis now, what with actual Asgardians and other Nine Realm types turning up basically in droves. He's probably just making it up as he goes along now. But he's definitely interested in what she's got to say now, and Darcy isn't quite sure whether she should fret about that, or preen. "I do hope to meet Thor one day. The future King of Asgard. You _do_ know him, don't you, Miss …?"

"Lewis. Darcy Lewis."

Great. Now why did she give him her name? Not a spy, is Darcy Lewis. But polite.

"Miss Lewis." Randolph smiles encouragingly. Oh, now it becomes clear. He's a Thor fan boy, and she's the closest he's ever come to the object of his worship. "So what's he like?"

Darcy s spared the need for an immediate answer by a public announcement in Norwegian. Of course she doesn't understand a word, but it says _Oslo_ in there somewhere, so maybe it's about their flight? She holds up her hand and waits for the lispy English version.

"_To the passengers for Scandinavian Flight 4591 to Oslo, we apologize for the delay. A new aircraft is on its way and is expected shortly. We will transfer your luggage and expect to be able to board at approximately one thirty a.m. All passengers who had connecting flights in Oslo will be asked to report to customer service on the ground upon arrival, where you will be given options for your onward journey, and hotel vouchers for the night. Again, we apologize for the inconvenience."_

Great. Darcy looks at her watch. Another hour and a half without food, caffeine or access to the internet. And that flight to LaGuardia is definitely toast.

She tosses Randolph a calculating look. He seems harmless, and interested, so.

"Thor's a nice guy. Bit like a great, big teddy bear when he's not out smashing things up with that hammer or closing up holes in the universe. Also, built? I mean, you should see him in a t-shirt, not with the cape and chain mail. The guy's got man boobs of solid steel. I'm actually a bit scared for Jane, because, you know, that whole fragile Earth flower thing? But she seems to be okay with it. Me, I like my guys a bit smaller. Muscly, but not totally bulked up. Like that one S.H.I.E.L.D. guy that used to hang around the pub Punta Antigua, the one with the dartboard? Oh, and he likes pop tarts and beer. Thor, that is. Not that other guy."

There's a sudden commotion in the hall, shouting, which sounds pretty much like Norwegian for "hold it right there" and "where the fuck do you think you're going?" Darcy looks over and …

"Well, looky here, speak of the Devil! I mean, speak of the God." She snorts a little at her own wit.

Thor comes striding through the waiting area like he owns the place – which he totally could, because he's carrying Mew-mew and has that flowing red cape and, let's face it, _because_ – and he's heading straight for Darcy with a big smile on his face.

"Darcy," he booms. "My Lady Jane says your transport has been delayed, and you are anxious to return home. May I render assistance and take you to your next destination?"

Darcy can't believe her ears. Thor is a good guy, and helpful around the house, but this?

"You're offering me airlift to Oslo?"

She absolutely tries not to squeak, but she probably does, because _flying with Thor? _At least it's not raining and the midnight sun is a bonus, and so she decides to be more excited than panicky.

"If you wish."

Thor waits for her to nod, and turns imperiously to the gaggle of people in uniform who have come running when he crashed through security, as if they could actually do something about it.

"Guards. Ensure that the Lady Darcy's belongings are sent to New York."

The security dudes kind of mill around a little projecting cluelessness, so Darcy hands them her boarding card.

"You heard the man," she says, happy to notice that the squeak is gone and she manages to sound almost imperious.

But then she remembers Elliot Randolph, who has gone very, very quiet and looks a little seasick.

"Professor," Darcy says airily. "Meet Thor. Thor, meet Professor Randolph. He studies Asgardian stuff and has been _dying_ to meet you."

"My Prince," Randolph stammers. "It is an honour beyond my station, and my wildest dreams to meet you here, in Midgard."

Thor frowns, and that whole jovial look drains from his face. He grips his hammer a little differently and it's like there is a sudden chill in the air. Thor does menace as well as he does affable.

"You," he growls. "You are of Asgard?"

_Holy shit. _Darcy swallows_. Not another one_ …? Darcy Lewis, alien magnet_. _Her mother would be so proud.

Randolph answers in a language Darcy doesn't understand, but it's pretty clear that Thor isn't particularly pleased by this latest development; he looks pretty put out actually. And who could blame him, really, what with the havoc that everyone from Asgard who isn't him seems to be wreaking as soon as they come to Earth.

But then Darcy hears the name _Coulson_ coming from Randolph and Thor looks thunderstruck (_Ha_! Must remember that one) and he exclaims, in English, "The Son of Coul lives?"

The conversation gets a lot more animated and friendly after that, which is funny, because why _wouldn't _Coulson be alive? He certainly was the last time she saw him, in New Mexico.

They seem to have reached some kind of understanding, and Thor reaches out to clasp Randolph's arm with his huge hand in some form of Asgardian secret shake, turns to Darcy and everything after that is pretty much a blur, because flying without a plane is really kind of nerve-wrecking, especially holding on to your hand luggage so it doesn't brain someone on the ground.

Darcy makes her connection in Oslo, and yes, her hair needs some _serious_ work. But all things considered, she sure isn't bored anymore, and that's a total win.

* * *

**End Note**: Before you ask, yes, "jossed" is a perfectly legitimate verb:

_**joss**__, v., tr._: to discard, in whole or in part, expectations and preconceived notions as to how a particular universe (* see _**'verse**__, n._) should unravel, often through deployment of red herrings or lethal violence, and with the utmost disregard for the affectionate attachments of other fictional characters or audiences. Etymologically traceable to the verbs "toss" and "jinx", the expression gained currency during the early years of the third Millennium, and is prevalent in cyber-discussion fora such as tumblr and LiveJournal, among aficionados of the Marvel Cinematic Universe and certain early 21st century television shows.


	2. Night Sounds, AirRaids, Minis, LaGuardia

**Crazy4Orcas **had a bad day, and asked for a cuddle!fic. But assassins aren't particularly cuddly people, so this is the best I could do.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Night Sounds**

* * *

His forehead is bathed in sweat, and his breathing loud and uneven, as if he is running in his dream. His left hand - not the one on which he habitually rests his head while sleeping, but the one that's on top the light down comforter - are twitching as if he is trying to restrain himself from reaching for a weapon.

Another nightmare, then.

_Loki._

Natasha studies the face of her partner (her friend, her lover) in the dim, grey morning light that has just started to seep into the small apartment. Those familiar features, so much younger-looking when his eyes aren't scanning the world like twin lasers, are twisted by whatever agonies his mind keeps putting on repeat whenever he sleeps.

She debates waking him, but she knows he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep and would head to the range instead, to exorcise the latest of his league of inner demons with his bow. Sleep deprivation was but one item on the long list of Loki's transgressions against Clint Barton, and remains one of his legacies – adding to that is the last thing Clint needs. Even if it means keeping him inside his nightmare until it finally wakes him.

She cares about him a great deal more (and a great deal differently) than she'd been willing to admit until that phone call from Coulson. But even before then, they've always _done_ for each other, as partners, as friends. Whatever it took – stitches, a slap in the face, hours of silence or screaming.

Then how is this different, just because his head is on the pillow next to hears, and they're under the same blanket?

Natasha is momentarily at a loss. Uncertainty and doubt are not in her nature, and helplessness is not a feeling she cares to examine too closely.

She surprises herself by wanting to reach out, to touch, but she knows from experience that waking him that way can have rather predictable (or worse, unpredictable) results; that time in Kampala only her own quick reflexes had saved her from a broken jaw.

Natasha listens to the rapid staccato of his breath, so like her own when she was running from the Hulk – not Banner, no, the _Hulk_, the … _Other_, a snarling harbinger of rage and death now coming for her behind her wide-open eyes. Her heartbeat starts racing with the memories.

She watches Clint's hand ball into a fist, her own ability to return to sleep now held hostage to the same price his subconscious insists on exacting.

And then she hears it, a voice from so far away that it may itself be a dream. A memory of days erased again and again, blacked out by pain and ice and too much red, but still _there_.

Still hers to have – and to give.

_Sssshhh._

Almost without thought she starts to copy the sound, shapes it from pursed lips - more a breath than anything, an exhalation, then a breeze caressing Clint's face. Her hand follows, not a touch, just warmth on his cheek, carried closer by the sound.

She suppresses a surprised smile as Clint twitches once more and begins to still.

Natasha allows her fingers to settle on his, butterfly-light, lets her hair brush across his face. He mutters something and she takes that as permission to move closer him and turn, until her back touches his chest. She molds her legs to follow the curve of his – he always sleeps with one pulled up - and puts her head under his chin. She pulls his arm across her waist, still over the covers but its weight an extra blanket in the retreating dark.

She smiles a little as his hand tightens briefly, and she can feel his lips in her hair and a breath that might be her name, or an echo of the sound she'd shaped for him.

'_Tasha.'_

Clint's breath and his heartbeat slow down; his hand relaxes and in the warm circle of her partner's arms Natasha's own mind starts drifting again, sinking into the silence.

Maybe she can do this after all?

Maybe they both can.

…..

* * *

I love steam punk; it's an aesthetic that is perfectly suited for the Avengers. (I mean, have you looked at Asgard?) So when I saw **inkvoices' **prompt for a "steam punk A/U," my own little gears started whirring. The title comes from a throwaway line in "Parade's End" that somehow stuck with me – and while WW1 may technically be on the outer edge of the steam punk era, they _did_ have zeppelins, so.

* * *

**5. Air Raids Permitting**

* * *

"Sir, the air raid has started. And the Captain …"

"Not now, Jarvis, I'm busy." Sir Anthony Stark held the two glasses against the light. The amber liquid reflected the light beautifully as he swirled each in turn. "Yes, the one on the left, definitely."

He turned to his guest.

"See, Doctor Banner, it's all in the way the light refracts off the molecules. In the Ardbeg there is just the slightest deviation into the ochre spectrum, compared to the Glenfiddich. And it's that peculiar deviation …"

"Sir, Captain Rogers is quite insistent. He requires your authorization to deploy the Iron Man. Sir."

The sound of a zeppelin engine fractured the night, accompanied by the ack-ack-ack of the unit's Thompson guns and an ominous rumble. The rumble ended in a percussive shockwave that caused the tent walls to flutter for a moment, followed by the muffled sound of an explosion.

"I said, not now, Jarvis. I am conducting an important science experiment with our guest, and failure to conclude it properly would make him very angry. And believe me, you do _not_ want to see Dr. Banner angry."

"I can wait," the Doctor said, with a sideways glance at Sir Anthony's batman. "Air raids are … important too. Aren't they?"

Sir Anthony sighed heavily.

"_Nothing_ is more important than being able to identify the correct single malt on sight. Your life, or more precisely, your happiness might depend on it some day."

Another explosion shook the ground and the tent flap few open. A tall figure covered in mud stood at the entrance, breathing heavily.

"General," the Captain pressed out, gulping for air. "The Iron Man?"

The Doctor cast a questioning glance at his host, who gave a deprecating shrug and a little eyeroll.

"It's what we call our big artillery piece. Sort of like a gun. It takes a while to get warmed up, but once it does …"

He turned to the Captain. "Fine. Power it up. Don't forget to arm the repulsors this time. And in the meantime, tell that sniper of yours to earn his pay. Now, Doctor Banner, as for the Balvenie, you will see …"

Captain Rogers saluted sharply and stood still for a few seconds, catching his breath, before heading back to the outer trenches at a crisp trot.

The zeppelins had multiplied in the night; the lights of the single Thor biplane that Headquarters had allotted them illuminated the whale-shaped hulls at irregular intervals. The pilot was obviously looking for appropriate target points, but having to keep the rickety contraption in the air seemed to command most of his attention. At best, he served as a distraction to the enemy bombers that were increasingly finding their target.

Rogers reached the end of the trench – closest to the enemy dugouts - where the sniper's nest was located.

"Corporal Barton," he bellowed. "General's orders. Fire at will!"

Barton spat a curse that caused his companion to turn her head.

"Vat?" she asked, her Russian accent occasionally made stronger by the adrenaline coursing through both their veins. Barton liked it. In fact, he liked it a lot.

"Seems like our fearless leadership has decided, first of all, that we may shoot at the ships that are kicking our butts and second, that the thing to use against an aerial attack is … a bow and arrow."

"Well, that is what we'll use then."

The redheaded corporal nodded decisively. Women were still rare in the army, rarer still at the front, but this one had proven her mettle more than any of the men Barton had worked with combined. They had become quite a team over the last few months, ever since the battle of Budapest.

"I don't see how," he said. "I mean, I'm good, but …"

"What are zeppelins made of?" Romanoff asked him. "Skin around gas, right?"

"Pretty much. Or so Sergeant Coulson says."

"So – what do you know about gas?"

_It burns._

"Flaming arrows?"

Romanoff smiled and started to take off her uniform jacket, cutting the fabric into thin strips. Barton felt his lips go dry at the sight of her …

_Focus, Barton._

She dowsed the strips in the oil they used to keep the guns running in the mud and the rain, then lit a torch and held it high. Barton tried very hard to ignore the extent to which she resembled the Statue of Liberty at the moment.

"Ready?"

He nocked an arrow, touched the tip to the torch and let fly.

"Try and hit the ones that are over the enemy trenches," she reminded him, rather unnecessarily. Two birds, one stone had always been his specialty. It was truly amazing how they understood one another.

One by one, the air ships went down in a ball of fire; by the time the Iron Man was ready to deploy, none were left.

Barton turned to Romanoff, who had begun to shiver in the cool night.

"So who needs the big guns?" he said jovially as he gallantly (if somewhat regretfully) hung his own jacket over her shivering shoulders. "You want to get a drink, or something?"

She reached up to caress his cheeks with her oil-smudged hand.

"I could use a drink," she purred. "_And_ 'something'. Air raids permitting."

…...

* * *

Promptathons is one of the things **be_compromised** does best.

* * *

**6. The "All Things Friday" Post-Cap2 Three-Sentence Fic-a-thon**

* * *

**SneakyHufflepuff: **

**"**_Steve attempts to match-make for Natasha."_

_..._

"Banner's a nice enough guy, don't you think, at least when he's not trying to crush your skull with a steel girder?"

"Or what about Sam - he can't run worth a damn, but he can sure sweep a woman off her feet."

"Oh, hey, I got it: If you went out with Barton, you'd already have a theme neckla ... _oh_."

…..

_Not strictly post-Cap2, but an annoying thing that sometimes happens in post-movie discussions, apparently – also from _**SneakyHufflepuff**_**: **_

_**"**__Natasha overhears people calling Hawkeye useless."_

_..._

She thinks how close they came to losing the war against Loki and the Chitauri, how they might have if the so-called God hadn't lost access to Clint's mind by the grace of an iron railing.

She remembers the arrow that knocked Loki off his sled, and gave her and Selvig the tool to close the portal against an alien invasion.

And then she thinks of the look in his eyes when he told her that it was okay to be broken, but that you didn't need to stay that way - and she finds that she just doesn't give a shit what anyone else on the planet has to say about the man who saved her life.

…..

_How could I resist this one? From_ **Inkvoices**_**: **_

_**"**__Straighteners"_

_..._

Stark's inventions can be a menace, especially in the hands of less-than-competent SHIELD techs. Natasha recoils when she sees her reflection in the mirror, right after those rays emanating from the lab had made her head feel funny. Maybe the effects will wash out, but there's no time for that now; as she heads out to pick up Steve for their mission, she hopes this isn't a sign of how the rest of her week will go.

….

_Also from _**Inkvoices**_**:**_

**"**_It's not flying; it's falling with style." (She loves Sam W., so.)_

_..._

Sam digs himself out from the snowdrift for the umpteenth time, cursing and spitting out flakes; how's the stuff even getting into his crotch, through that uniform? If anyone had told him that before soaring like a falcon he'd be spending _weeks_ flopping around like a penguin, he might have reconsidered enrolling in the program. But then he thinks about all the things he could do when he finally manages to get those wings under control, grits his teeth and takes off again.

….

_Every fic-a-thon has to go there. I s'pose – and _**theladymore **_did_**:**

_"We've got plenty of time now...Let's go to Budapest."_

_..._

"I suppose one advantage of no longer having a pay check coming in, is that no one expects you to show up for work on Monday, either."

Despite - or maybe because of - his shitty childhood and the betrayals that wind through his life like a strand of black pearls (and wasn't that last one a doozy?), Clint has always been in the business of chasing silver linings.

"So we could try and see whether those baths are any good for relaxing, not just for dodging goons with Kalashnikovs."

….

_And then __**desertport**__ said in a comment,_

_"Now I want fic with them dodging goons in a Budapest bath house!" So I wrote a sequel:_

_..._

"I thought you said no goons, Barton - so what the hell are these guys doing here?!"

Natasha flicks the towel into her attacker's eye, causing him to scream in pain, and watches with grim satisfaction as he slips on the soap and cracks his skull on the granite fountain.

Satisfied that the man whose head he has been holding underwater has stopped breathing, Clint tut-tuts mildly and points out that for _real_ goons, they'd have had to put their clothes back on.

….

**Philstar22:**

_"If this man is just a job, then why does he seem so familiar?"_

_..._

He is a void, a nothing, a whirl of blank thoughts - a canvas on which others draw their desires, then conceal them again with a blanket of white.

"I'll be with you to the end of the line."

A thought slows down: he catches it, tastes it – snow, turning to water.

….

_Not strictly post-Cap2 either, but every Avengers writer has to commit one of these, right? _**Desertport**_ tossed it out, and I'm glad I got to do my duty to this trope in just three sentences:_

_"In the middle of a mission, Clint and Natasha are both de-aged to preteen-hood."_

_..._

"You know, how those bots, like, fired that ray thing at us, Mr. Stark?"

Clint would be telling the man in the funky red suit the story himself, but the words just won't come; he looks at the little red-headed girl with a plea in his eyes, hoping she won't tell him _everything_. 'Coz being hit by ray guns is embarrassing enough, but realizing he'd been kissing a _girl_ when it happened - _eww, gross_.

…..

* * *

Last but not least (I think?): One of the LJ comms I hang out in (**rennerobsession) **has a regular "pic fic" contest. Fics are generally PWP-ish, rich in UST or RST and must be under 600 words. (I've putzed with it a bit since and it may be slightly over that now.)

Anyway, here it is. Expect no redeeming features... Rated M for some heavy innuendo - technically still a "T", but I'm being cautious here (not conservative, just ... cautious).

* * *

**7. La Guardia, 6 p.m.**

* * *

He emerges from the arrivals hall sooner than expected, one of the first passengers out, the benefit of carry-on and business class travel.

It should a bit obscene, she thinks, that a man returning home fresh from decimating not one, but _two_ Mexican drug cartels – twenty-seven confirmed kills, not counting the minions that ended up shooting each other in the fallout - should look this relaxed.

The backpack on his shoulder has a familiar bulge on the outside, and Natasha briefly wonders what (if anything) airport security made of the oddly shaped pieces that make up his composite bow and collapsible arrows. Thanks to SHIELD's R&D Department, everything is made of carbon fiber and high-density resin rather than metal, which somehow allows Clint Barton to get away with sticking one of the deadliest instruments on Earth into the overhead luggage compartment.

He looks good, dammit, dressed in his favourite black jeans, shirt and baseball cap, like a grad student coming home from a field trip to the Mayan pyramids. She wonders how long she'll be able to keep her hands off him in the name of public decency; that new little bit of scruff on his face practically begs to be licked off.

His soft "Hey!" disrupts her thoughts. The glint in his eyes gets deeper and the grin threatens to split his face as he takes in the cut of the blouse she'd decided to wear to the airport.

"Hey yourself," she breathes, trying very hard (and failing) to ignore the sudden pooling of raw want that threatens to melt down her core at the sound of his voice. She finds herself moving alongside him, matching his stride towards the end of the barrier that separates passengers from those waiting.

"Didn't expect you to pick me up, darlin'," he drawls. "One would almost think you missed me."

She suppresses the sudden urge to smack him.

But then they're face to face, and her hands wrap around his neck seemingly of their own volition, just as his settle on her hips to pull her impossibly close. He smells of sun and coffee (no, that's coming from the backpack – his usual souvenir of Chiapas Dark Roast) and an underlay of cordite; the feel of his hard body against her breasts makes her head spin.

Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, reduced to a creature of base instinct and desire by her partner? She might consider killing him for that, if his tongue weren't currently exploring her mouth without any pretense at restraint, and if his fingers weren't kneading her ass in a way you just can't replicate on Skype.

She grinds into him a little harder, smirking in triumph as his roaming hands discover just why that tight skirt she's wearing has no visible panty line. His response is immediate and gratifying, and it's only the dim recollection that there are other passengers in the terminal that prevents her from reaching for him right then and there.

He buries his face in the crook of her neck, tasting her skin with his tongue and takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"Let's get out of here. Another minute and I won't be able to walk," he hisses.

She gives a quick return lick into his ear - over those headphones - before turning primly away, in the direction of the Parkade. She can feel the heat of his body behind her, in an excellent position to observe just what those stiletto sandals do for her gait.

"I guess you'll be glad to hear that I brought a van, then."

It's been a long month.


	3. Mountain Interlude

**A/N: **I figured I might as well keep using this "story" as the place to put little things**. **This one was written for the PicFic challenge on Inspired by pictures from the set of "Avengers: Age of Ultron." (Check out the post for this story on AO3, where I could stick in the photo). The only rule in the challenge: it has to be 600 words or less. This one clocked in at 598. Ha!

I pounced on the opportunity to set down on paper (figuratively speaking) my new head canon around those photos and the post-credit scene in Cap2 - namely that while all the stuff there went down, Clint was on a mission to track down Scarlet Witch and Quicksilver. It'll get jossed for sure, but not until May 2015!

* * *

**8. Mountain Interlude**

* * *

Sometimes, being human really sucks.

Okay, given what Clint does for a living and how that would be a lot easier if he could fly or throw a house, being human sucks pretty much 24/7. He spares a glance at the pretty girl gesturing beside him – yeah, he shouldn't call a woman that but dammit, this one can't be older than fifteen - even _she_ can do shit that isn't in the Barton family specs.

Good thing the twins are on his side (and grateful to him for getting them out of that HYDRA pit), because that metal behemoth is now heading straight for them. As he nocks his last remaining explosive arrow, Clint bemoans the days when the worst thing he ever had to shoot was goons with lousy tattoos.

Fuck, this is getting old. _Run, shoot, stare in disbelief at the lack of visible impact, repeat. _His shoulders hurt where he got hit by a rock, and his arms are on fire from pulling the bowstring a hundred times. And he's not even getting paid for this shit anymore, not since Rogers closed down SHIELD, hosed it out and took the light bulbs. (Small consolation – turns out, most of those jerks in Finance really _were _Nazis; must remind Tasha he was right about that.)

_Natasha._ It's been too long.

The machine slows down somewhat, thanks to Wanda - thank God for competent women – and Clint finally gets the shot he needs; the arrow buries itself in the thing's eye slit. (Just why does an Imperial Walker need eyes anyway? Although right now, the designer's fondness for anthropo… _human _design comes in handy.)

_Focus, Barton._ He clicks the remote detonator. One, two, three – _boom._

An electrical spark crackles all around the metal chassis; Pietro races around the thing a few times to create a kind of vortex (guy's an arrogant little shit with a dorky call sign, but he can sure _move_). The machine falls over, twitches a couple of times and stops moving; an eerie silence descends over the village square. Three cheers for teamwork.

One down, who knows how many to go; they're all over, according to CNN, and now even in Disneyesque mountain villages. What they need is to find the spawning grounds, not take the suckers out one at a time.

Clint has barely finished that thought when his sat phone rings.

"Hawkeye. You done there? Doing anything tonight?"

_Tasha?_

"Tell me you're in touch with Fury and Rogers and the others, and that there's a plan. 'Cause this game of whack-a-mole really, really sucks."

"I missed you too, Clint."

"Sorry," he sighs. "Adrenaline hasn't worn off yet. Plus, I've got rubble in places where it has no business being."

There is silence at the other end of the phone. Then, "So. About tonight?"

Wanda and Pietro are giving him funny looks, and Clint points apologetically to his phone, mouthing something about _home base_. But the locals are emerging from behind shuttered windows, and it's time to go.

"Absolutely. Name the place. As long as it's not here."

He assumes she knows where _here _is; probably has eyes on the place, thanks to some residual S.H.I.E.L.D. tech.

"You should be able to make Belgrade by eight. And yes, there _is _a plan." He can hear the smile in her voice when she adds, "But with any luck, there'll be time to get the rubble out of your uniform and give you a nice backrub."

He snaps the phone shut with a grin. _Backrub. _Maybe being human isn't that bad after all.


	4. Vindaloo Surprise, Beach Blanket Bingo

A/N: The impact of gamma rays on the human metabolism is a well documented, if classified, phenomenon. Less understood is the effect of certain Indian spice mixtures on the Asgardian digestive tract.

**Crazy4orcas** and **CloudAtlas** had this head canon exchange, about how Clint and Natasha like to cook spicy food; how maybe the first time they cooked for the team Bruce would totally troll Tony by inhaling it without blinking (after all, he lived in Calcutta …). And then this happened.

* * *

**9. Vindaloo Surprise**

* * *

Thor shovels the lamb vindaloo into his mouth with his usual gusto, blissfully ignoring the expectant stares from the two assassin cooks. Tony eyes him as he would a science experiment, while Bruce sits absolutely still, his own fork frozen in midair.

"Wait," Steve sounds concerned. "Do we have any idea exactly what impact this kind of stuff could have on the Asgardian digestive system?"

"Not yet," Tony says serenely as Thor swallows. "But I suspect it will be only a question of time."

The cheerful expression on Thor's face suddenly changes to a frown, and he rubs his chest.

"I am not responsible for whatever happens here," Bruce points out, obviously torn between sticking around to watch and finishing his vindaloo for his own happiness, and removing himself from the battlefield for everyone else's.

Thor opens his mouth, but it isn't to speak — nothing comes out; his face contorts a little as he is obviously trying to expel … something. Natasha and Clint exchange slightly worried glances; neither of them looks at Steve who is wearing his I-told-you-so face.

"Let it out, man," Clint encourages him. "Good solid burp, and you'll feel better."

In truth, everyone expects the belch to be spectacular, Norse-God-sized.

Nobody, however, expects the three-foot flame.

"So that's what it does," Tony mutters as he lunges for the fire extinguisher by the kitchen cupboard.

Thor, by now, is smiling again. He wipes the soot off his chin and bangs his fist on the table with undisguised glee.

"Another!"

...

...

* * *

This was written for the **be_compromised** "All The Things Friday" exchange, to this prompt by **sgflutegirl**: _Clint and Natasha being forced to take a vacation (reason up to the writer). They hate it at first, but end up enjoying themselves anyway. _

Now slightly edited, because you should never really post something written on a Friday night (around a couple of glasses of wine) without having read it through a few times.

* * *

**10. Beach Blanket Bingo: Cancùn**

* * *

"What the hell do you mean, vacation?"

"First of all, Barton, it's _what the hell do you mean, SIR_. And second, vacation is that thing you do where you don't do anything."

"And why exactly would we want to do - or not do - that, _sir_?"

Clint's voice has taken on that quality when you can practically see the green acid dripping from the speech bubble. Natasha is staying out of it for now. It's always better to let her partner flatten the enemy with a blast - she'll come in after and slit the throats of the ones still writhing.

"You have been carrying out seventeen missions in a row, agents," Coulson piles on. "The only days you haven't been out in the field, were when one of you was in Medical. You may think you're still sharp, but the truth is, you're both losing your edge. It's time for a break before you crack."

Fury briefly frowns at Coulson before directing a pre-emptive, baleful glare at Natasha.

"We're sending you to a place where they mix drinks far better than Coulson here does metaphors."

He makes the talk-to-the-hand gesture before Natasha can so much as raise her voice. The Director has made up his mind, that much is clear.

"You _will_ go. Not negotiable. SHIELD is paying, so consider this another mission. We've reserved a spot for you at the Marriott resort in Cancun, and yes, we got you a double room with a king-sized bed. And don't even bother pretending that you're not actually sleeping with each other. We have video. Quinjet's picking you up at five sharp; Whether you pack a bikini and swimming trunks is up to you, although I would highly recommend that you do. Dismissed."

…..

"So, what do you think?"

Clint squints at Natasha over his beer, and the rim of his sunglasses. She's not sure whether she should be concerned that he doesn't seem to be staring at bits of her bikini-clad body. (Bored already, Barton?).

It's their second day of sitting by the pool, swimming in the pool, or walking around the pool to get to the ocean (repeat). Right now, they're by the ocean, on a beach lined with white chaiselongues and straw sun covers; white sand, murmuring surf - the works. They've long since stopped arguing whether the proper term for the water is _azure, turquoise, cerulean_ or_ aquamarine_, and as far as Natasha is concerned, next week can't come soon enough.

Her hands clutch the daiquiri as if she could crush the glass, and she barely manages to keep the irritation out of her voice.

"What do I think of what? _Vacation_? Fury's idea of punishment for the Florence fuck-up."

Clint heaves a sigh.

"No, what do you think of those two guys over there by the bar. Jalisco or Juarez? I say Jalisco. They have that _narcotraficante_, uni-browed thug thing going in a pretty spectacular manner."

Natasha follows Clint's eyes - so that's where they have been … Forgiveness is instantaneous as her world brightens. He's right: the two men, deep in conversation, have Organized Crime written all over their hirsute bodies.

A small smile curls her lips, and she drains her daiquiri before gracefully rising from her lounger.

"I'll go find out. A _cuba libre_ says they're Juarez. Maybe Tijuana. I don't see any tattoos."

"The Tijuana cartel? In Cancùn?" Clint raises a disbelieving eyebrow. "Seriously? You're on, lady."

….

Clint has dozed off by the time she gets back to her chaiselongue. Bastard didn't even bother to watch the proceedings? She allows the condensation from the ice-cold drink to drip on his bare stomach and nods in satisfaction when he yelps in surprise.

"Score one _cuba libre_ for you, Barton," she smirks. "Jalisco. The tattoos were hidden in the chest hair."

He reaches for the glass, and lets his tongue catch one of the drops, then gives the lemon a languid lick until it falls into the drink. The things that man does with his mouth should be prohibited under international law. Not to mention those abs …

A thought strikes her. There are thirteen major drug cartels in Mexico, and Cancùn is neutral ground. This is where they all come for their margaritas, no matter what Clint might think.

"If spotting one cartel is worth a _cuba libre_, how much for a full bingo?"

Clint looks at her thoughtfully over his straw, making little slurpy noises while thinking. He's interested, but ground rules are important.

"Bingo, huh. We playing full contact, or dry?"

"You have your methods to get confirmation, I have mine. Don't cause any unnecessary paperwork, though."

Clint blows her a kiss to seal the deal, lets his eyes rake over her body. She gives him her most seductive Black-Widow-bats-her-lashes look. The man catches on quickly; his next words settle the deal.

"As for the prize? I say, winner's choice."

Maybe Fury_ did_ know what he was doing, sending them here. Things are definitely looking up.


End file.
